


Oxford Boys

by eleanor_lavish



Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-28
Updated: 2006-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:41:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleanor_lavish/pseuds/eleanor_lavish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i><b>This is the beginning of the end, folks.  Indieslash.  AU.</b></i><br/>Indie boys go to University.  Oxford, specifically.  Don't be surprised if Nick McCarthy shows up soon doing maths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"He's _French_ , you idiot," Brandon whispered and kicked Ricky lightly under the table. "His last name's _Barat_. Also, have you seen his _nose_?"

Ricky rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and his first name's _Carlos_ , you twat. And no Frenchman I know has skin that lovely." He whacked Brandon's hand away from his notes and shot a look to the front of the room where their TA was sitting comfortably, feet up on an old wooden desk. Ever since they'd managed to get the same study section for Advanced Classical Literature, Brandon and Ricky had been having a running argument about Carl. Where was he from? Where did he buy his waistcoats? Did he wear waistcoats because he was a ponce (Ricky) or because he was just _that cool_ (Brandon).

Brandon wore _spats_ sometimes, so Ricky did not give any stock to his opinions about clothes.

The one thing they agreed on was that Carl Barat was the man on the Oxford campus most in need of a shag. He was usually spotted alone, walking through the quad at the crack of dawn, or sitting in a corner of the pub, notebook open on his lap. Sometimes Ricky caught sight of him in the window of the Classics Department, perched on an ancient window seat, reading. Their section of class was full of giggling girls and boys in too much eyeliner (something Brandon and Ricky gave up after their first semester). Carl never appeared to take too much notice of any of them, however. Here, of course, the argument started up again.

"He's not gay just because you _want_ him to be, Ricky." Brandon scanned a few more lines of his Latin assignment and looked up. They were sitting on the quad, on the grass. The sun was finally shining enough that the whole of the student body was outside, smiling and playing errant games of footie. Ricky was staring across the lawn to Carl, lounging bonelessly on a bench outside the library. He was reading what looked to be a long letter, pages folded in thirds and wrinkled at the edges. A group of girls passed him and giggled.

"That's not it, Brand. He's just... I don't know. Too pretty to be straight. He doesn't give a shit about any of the girls who throw themselves at him." He kicked his trainers against a tree trunk and leaned back on his elbows.

"Or the boys," Brandon added pointedly. Ricky had been Brandon's first friend on campus, and the first boy who ever kissed him. Ricky'd been kissing boys since secondary school, and Brandon was shocked and embarrassed the night Ricky had dragged him behind the statue of Byron after a party their second month at Oxford and pressed him against a wall. _You can fool yourself, but you can't fool me, Flowers,_ he'd said before the kiss. Brandon had tried not talking to him for a week after, but Ricky Wilson was nothing if not tenacious. _Come on, then. We'll be gay best friends, okay? You need me to lead you down the path of debauchery._ Brandon had lasted all of two weeks before he allowed Ricky to dress him up and take him to a bar in London.

That was two years ago.

"Yeah, well. I haven't fully planned my attack yet," he winked at Brandon and laughed out loud.

"Having fun, Mr. Wilson?" Brandon and Ricky both froze at the sound of his voice, amused and laced as usual with the smooth, rich quality that more often than not distracted them both in class. Carl was standing over them, leaning on the tree with his long hair in his eyes, long fingers wrapped around his letter.

"Yeah, it's... yeah, we are." Ricky lay all the way back in the grass, arching his back just a fraction, staring up at Carl with a sly grin. Brandon just ducked his head back into his Catullus.

Carl chuckled. "Good to hear. Gorgeous days are not to be wasted. Mr. Flowers?"

Brandon's head shot up quickly. "Hmm? Sorry?"

"Your last paper, on Homer? That was some very impressive work. Have you read a lot of the Russians?"

Brandon could feel himself blushing to his toes. Worse, he could feel Ricky's shit-eating grin. He just prayed Carl wouldn't notice. "No, not really. Some Dostoyevsky, Chekov in school. The basics, I guess."

"Well, your paper hit some very interesting parallels with some Russian lit theorists. You should drop by my office hours and we'll talk."

"Sure," Brandon's entire face was bright pink, he was sure, but he couldn't help but grin.

"And Mr. Wilson?" He glanced at Ricky who was doing some odd contortion of his neck. "You can try to read my letter upside-down all you'd like, but I warn you, it's not only in Russian, its in verse. So good luck."

Ricky blinked, horrified. Brandon tilted his head in interest. "How many languages do you read, anyway?"

Carl furrowed his brow thoughtfully. "Let's see... French and Spanish, so Italian too I suppose, Latin, classic Greek, passable German. The Russian's new."

"Why?" Ricky seemed to have recovered and was now sitting cross-legged, staring up at Carl, shading his eyes with one hand. "I mean, Russian isn't really needed for Classics, is it?"

Carl smiled shyly. "I have a friend who studies there, and he likes to write to me. He figured it was good practice for him, and I've always wanted to learn."

"Oh. Right." Brandon's chest was suddenly tight and he couldn't quite figure why. Carl pushed himself upright and waved, walking back toward the library. When he looked back at Ricky, he was blinded by the grin that met him. "What?"

"Well," Ricky leaned back with a happy sigh, watching Carl's ass as he walked away. "I guess that settles that. Boyfriend in Russia..."

"You don't know that," Brandon accused.

"Yeah, well, who else signs their letters 'Forever yours, my heart, Pete'?"

"...You read _Russian_?"

Ricky laughed. "It’s amazing the things you don't know about me, Flowers."  



	2. Chapter 2

  
He’d meant to knock. In fact he was pretty sure he _had_ knocked, but there was no answer other than harsh breathing—the kind you get when some ancient bookshelf has finally given way from age and the weight of three tons of Western literature and fallen on you, _crushing you_ , because you aren’t all that big actually—and Brandon didn’t wait after he had that thought. He was sure that Carl would forgive him, once he’d dug him out from under a mountain of the collected works of Aristotle.

But now he stood in the middle of the small, dark room, a bit of stained glass reflecting some brilliant colors on the far wall where Carl was sitting. Brandon couldn’t see his face, currently buried in his knees and hidden by a canopy of dark hair. But Carl was sobbing, or close to it, the crinkled edges of letter balled in his fist.

It was horribly disconcerting, and Brandon was torn between running away as fast as he could to save them both the mortification when Carl finally noticed him, and the overwhelming urge to sit down next to him and wrap his fingers around Carl’s neck, pulling him close and telling him everything would be alright.

He settled on a compromise, and crossed the room silently, blessing his trainers for not squeaking on the old wooden floor. He stopped barely a foot from Carl and slowly sat down, reaching out to touch Carl’s knee gently.

“Hey, Carl?” It was barely a whisper but Carl’s head shot up like a bullet, eyes wide and wet, darting from Brandon to the desk cluttered with papers and back to the letter in his hand.

“What…? _Christ._ ” He was hoarse and Brandon could see where the tears had soaked through his grey trousers in places. He wondered how long Carl had been there.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. I was just coming by to talk and I heard… I thought you might be hurt so,” Brandon exhaled with a sigh. “Are you alright? Should I get someone?”

Carl blinked at him for a moment before shaking his head and wiping harshly at his face with the back of one hand. “No, no, ‘m fine. No one to get, really. Thank you, Flowers,” he answered, blushing furiously. He moved to stand, unfolding one leg and reaching forward but Brandon stopped him with a light shove to his shoulder.

“It’s okay. Just take a minute.” Brandon’s hand lingered a little too long on Carl’s shoulder and he pulled back quickly. Carl rested his head back against the cracked paneling and closed his eyes. His breathing was still ragged and Brandon could see a slight tremor in his hands. He focused on the letter, but it was impossible to read—the page was too crumpled and the letters peeking out from Carl’s fingers were strange. He flushed and looked away, guilty. “Was it,” he paused, unsure how to phrase the question. “Did you get bad news? Something from home?”

Carl swallowed hard and kept his eyes closed. His fingers tightened around the letter. “Not from home.”

“Oh,” Brandon waited, staring at the pattern of light currently flickering across Carl’s shoulder, catching on the metal buttons of his jacket.

“My friend, he’s in hospital.” Carl took a stuttering breath and opened his eyes slowly. He didn’t look at Brandon, or at anything. His eyes were unfocused like he was staring at something far away. “He said he wouldn’t… he promised…” Carl paused and then looked back at Brandon. “He’ll be fine, they think. Russian hospitals are pretty dismal, but this is certainly something they’ve seen before.” Brandon startled when Carl laughed; a horrible, choked sound filled with bitterness.

 _He said he wouldn’t, he promised_.

And suddenly something clicked in Brandon’s head and he was fourteen again, standing numbly outside a hospital room in north Vegas, his mother sobbing on his dad’s shoulder. _He promised me that was the last time. He said he wouldn’t, that he’d get help. I should have locked him in his room and never let him leave._ Brandon’s brother was seventeen, and he had just wrapped himself around a tree, high on meth and Jack Daniels.

“Come on,” Brandon was suddenly aware that they were sitting on the floor of Carl’s office, and anyone could walk in any moment. He stood, reaching out a hand to help Carl up. “We’re getting out of here.”

“I can’t,” Carl replied, slightly dazed as he took Brandon’s hand, standing and stumbling back against the wall. “Office hours are on…”

Brandon was already gathering up Carl’s worn leather bag, handing him his scarf and coat. “You really want to talk about Homeric themes or do you want a drink, Barat?”

Carl smiled faintly, wrapping the scarf loosely around his neck. “Drink sounds about right, actually.”

“This way,” he steered Carl out the door with a hand at the small of his back, quietly passing the doors of the grand professors and the surprisingly noisy Classics library and out to the street. Carl stuffed his hands in his pockets to avoid the chill, and Brandon noted unsurprisingly that the letter was still there, folded around his fist.

“Where to?”

“McCullum’s,” was Brandon’s quick reply. McCullum’s was the place he always went when campus was overwhelming and he needed a place free of tweed coats and boys in eyeliner and Ricky. All three were too much some days, and Brandon loved the cool dark of McCullum’s, and the sweet smile of the bartender, and the thick Glaswegian accent of Paul, the cook. The walk was farther than to most of the campus establishments and Carl and Brandon walked in silence, tugging their wool coats close as the wind picked up.

Brandon pointed to a booth in the back and ordered a pitcher of stout. Nick poured without his usual comment, nodding to Carl and smiling softly at Brandon. Nick McCarthy was an amazing judge of mood and seemed to understand the need for quiet, though it wasn’t hard to notice the waves of hurt coming from Carl, and Brandon’s concerned looks. When they reached the booth, Brandon poured before he even sat down. Carl slung his coat off heavily and reached into his pocket, lighting a cigarette and slumping hard against the wooden bench. It wasn’t until they’d finished the first pitcher and Nick had come by with a second, dropping a basket of chips on the table with a smile and a light tough to Carl’s shoulder that they spoke to each other.

“How long have you known him?” It was an odd first question, perhaps, but Brandon couldn’t think of another one that didn’t have the word “addict” in it.

Carl paused for moment, considering. “Met Pete my first year of boarding school. His father’s a diplomat, and his mum taught church school. He had the face of a fucking choirboy,” Carl laughed, a real one this time. “Actually, I think Pete _was_ a fucking choirboy for a while there.”

They sipped in silence for a while until Carl continued. “He’s been my best mate for fifteen years, you know? Somewhere around grade ten everyone finally started noticing that he was trouble. He’d been trouble for years, but he always got away with it. Pete’s greatest asset is charm. Well, he’d say charm. Most would say he’s a brilliant fucking liar.”

“Did he go to school here, with you?” Brandon wondered if Carl and Pete were anything like he and Ricky, who was the greatest charmer in Brandon’s life, and the person who kept him from drinking himself into expulsion his second year when his brother failed his third rehab and his mom had called, begging him to come home. _You can’t let her take you down too, Brand. You’ve got to let him fail, and let her fail, and let them all live their own lives. Your life is here, mate._

“For a little while, yeah. Got in by the skin of his teeth, and his damn charm, I suppose.” Carl smiled wistfully at the memory. “By the beginning of year two he was already bored, and I wasn’t. I loved it and I studied hard, all the time. I think Pete hated Oxford just for that. Just for taking my attention away from him.” He was quiet again then, finishing his pint and pouring another, shaking out another cigarette and offering one to Brandon who shook his head politely. Carl smiled. “Nasty habit, I guess.”

“Not as bad as some,” Brandon replied automatically, not even thinking until the words left his mouth.

Carl’s smile froze and fell slowly, his hand absently moving to the pocket of his coat where the crumpled letter lay. “No, it’s not.”

Brandon let out a slow breath and forced himself to look across the table. “Is that when he started using?”

Carl didn’t even flinch, just exhaled a lungful of smoke and leaned his elbows on the table, not breaking eye contact. “Yeah. Club drugs at first, mainly. I didn’t even know it was a problem until he flunked three classes that semester and couldn’t talk his way out of it. After that, he took a leave and ran off to London. He’d come visit every week at first, then twice a month. When I didn’t see him for five weeks, I freaked out and went to find him. That’s when I first saw him shoot up, in the apartment his father paid for.”

It wasn’t a shock, but Brandon exhaled sharply anyway. Heroin was the holy grail of addicts, and Pete had been using since he was twenty; Brandon was amazed he was still standing. “I’m sorry,” he said automatically.

“Me too,” Carl replied without expression. “How did you know?”

“My brother’s an addict. Meth.” Brandon shot his eyes over to the bar, unconsciously checking that no one was listening in. No one but Ricky knew about Danny and Brandon was glad for that. “Been in half a dozen rehabs now, but I’m pretty sure he’s not ever going to beat it. Don’t think he really wants to. Downward spiral, you know?”

“Yeah,” he stared at his hands, running his finger over a small silver ring on his right hand. They sat in silence for a while after that, drinking and eating greasy chips, Carl smiling as the CD changed to the Kinks and Brandon started singing quietly along. “Thank you,” he noted softly, not meeting Brandon’s eyes. “For doing this. This afternoon, I was… I really thought he could do it this time. He was writing there, and staying with relatives I hoped would look out for him.”

“No one can save an addict from himself,” Brandon cut in gently, unable to stop the sadness in his voice.

Carl reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I know.” Brandon’s fingers twined around Carl’s as he tried to pull away. Carl stopped, looking at their hands. His thumb ran gently over Brandon’s wrist for a moment and Brandon fought a shiver. “Your boyfriend—he wouldn’t be to happy to see you here with me,” Carl spoke quietly, his voice lower than it had been a minute ago.

“My… what?” Brandon asked, confused and distracted by the sensation of Carl’s palm warm over his.

He chuckled softly and Brandon looked up. “Your boyfriend? Mr. Wilson.”

“No, he’s. No!” Brandon flushed and shook his head. “Ricky’s my best friend in the world, but he’s not my boyfriend.” He paused, grinning at the thought. “I’d kill him if we dated. The man’s kind of a drama queen.”

“Oh.” Carl looked slightly lost and Brandon squeezed his hand again. He blinked at the pressure and smiled slowly. “I’d just assumed. You two are pretty inseparable.”

“Not that inseparable,” Brandon countered, and flushed even darker. Somehow the statement was laced with innuendo that he hadn’t intended. But Carl’s fingers were sliding across his wrist again, a more intimate gesture than Brandon had felt in a long time. He glanced up to find Carl studying him intently. Brandon could feel his breathing shallow.

“Good to know.”  



	3. Chapter 3

_15-11-2006  
From: Brandon Flowers  
To: Carlos Barat  
Subject: this week's tutorial_

 _My hatred of Aristotle can't be summed up in mere words. Be prepared._

 _Brandon_

 _(How are you holding up? Any word?)_

 _*_

 _16-11-2006  
From: Carlos Barat  
To: Brandon Flowers  
Subject: Re: this week's tutorial_

 _You are an American. I have to keep reminding myself that you were raised like a barnyard animal. Without Aristotle, we would all still be sacrificing virgins._

 _Carl_

 _(All right. No word from him directly, but that's not a shock.)_

 _*_

 _17-11-2006  
From: Brandon Flowers  
To: Carlos Barat  
Subject: Re: re: this week's tutorial_

 _"Without Aristotle, we would all still be sacrificing virgins."_

 _Well, we'd be safe, at least! At least I would be, and I can only assume you would be too since you are lovely. Virgins are completely overrated in my opinion. If I were a god, I'd send them back and demand someone who would at least be decent in bed. Not that all non-virgins are—I've had some crap sex with truly slutty people. (Not Ricky—stop it.) But in principle it makes sense. Things I would also demand if I were a Greek god—boys with no gag reflex, good scotch whiskey, a wide screen television, daily naps, pomegranates (have you ever had a pomegranate? I must have mom send some some!), world peace, no more lute music, and an end to the unnatural human/animal hybrid (Mr. Tumnus always freaked me out as a kid). We should discuss this over drinks at McCullum's._

 _Brandon_

 _*_

 _17-11-2006  
From: Brandon Flowers  
To: Carlos Barat  
Subject: PLEASE IGNORE LAST EMAIL OF DRUNKEN RAMBLING_

 _I just woke up and read my sent mail, and I should never be allowed near a computer after Nick makes his famous "Six shooter". Am mortified and hope you will forget the whole thing._

 _Except McCullum's. Nick asked about you, so. You should come out with Ricky and I some night. It's got to be better than grading my awful essay._

 _B_

 _*_

 _17-11-2006  
From: Carlos Barat  
To: Brandon Flowers  
Subject: Re: PLEASE IGNORE LAST EMAIL OF DRUNKEN RAMBLING_

 _Don't worry. I make it a habit not to read emails sent by students between 2 and 6 AM. They are invariably incoherent and/or vaguely insulting. I will certainly take you up on your offer, but can it wait until next week? I've an essay due in to McKellen Monday and I'm afraid I've been a bit distracted this week, so it'll be a weekend of cigarettes and frantic scribbling._

 _And your essays are never awful._

 _C_

 _(Mr. Tumnus freaked me out too.)_

*

"What is _up_ with you tonight?" Ricky clapped him on the shoulder and sat heavy on his barstool, pint in hand. "Hardy and Knowles have spent the last hour trying to goad you into reciting 'Jabberwocky'. It usually only takes ten minutes before you cave." He grinned and leaned on the bar, motioning to Nick with his empty glass. "You're still mooning, aren't you?"

He'd told Ricky about Carl—not about Pete, of course, or about the moment at the end of the afternoon when Carl had looked at him, but about the pints at McCullum's. Ricky had seen through him in about six seconds and pronounced him 'smitten'. Brandon's attempts at arguing that only pre-teen boys and folks in regency novels had ever been 'smitten' were laughed off. "If the only issue you can find with it is semantics, you're really gone on him, mate," he'd smiled and shaken his head sadly. "Pity he leads your tutorials."

Pity, indeed. Brandon's tutorial the week before had been obviously cut short, and he was embarrassed to admit the one upcoming was making his stomach flip. He'd developed an unhealthy obsession with Carl's hands and was sure he was going to make an ass of himself.

"Just not in the mood for Bob and Andy right now," he smiled and finished his pint. Ricky tugged him close, arm wrapped companionably around his shoulder.

"Come out to the club with us. We'll find you a pretty freshman." He grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

Brandon laughed. "Maybe next week, yeah? I should get home and work on my essay." He pulled a few bills from his wallet and laid them on the bar.

"You just want to do well to impress your _boyfriend_ ," Ricky replied melodramatically, laughing as Brandon pinched him hard on the arm.

"Some of us have to work for our grades, Wilson." But Ricky winked and Brandon grinned and everything was normal. Nick walked up as Ricky jogged back to the darts board.

"Leaving so soon?" He cleaned the bar absently, eyes focused on Brandon's face.

Brandon slung his coat on and pulled his scarf from his pocket. "Yeah, bit of work due."

"How's Carlos, then?" Nick dropped his voice low, making sure no prying ears could overhear.

"Um," Brandon stuttered. He wasn't in much position to say. He'd only seen Carl once since that afternoon, walking slowly towards the library. His emails sounded all right, but that wasn't a real indicator of anything. "I don't know. Busy, I guess. Said he has a big paper due Monday for McKellen."

"He always does these days," Nick smiled. "Stays up three days straight existing on nothing but nicotine and coffee. Always shows up Monday teatime and eats his way through half a dozen kebabs."

Brandon smiled, thinking of Carl surround by leather bound tomes, cigarette dangling forgotten from his lips as he typed frantically. But Carl's typing brought images of Carl's hands and Carl's full mouth, and Brandon blushed as he realized he'd been trying to picture Carl typing without a shirt. Nick smiled wider. "Um, I was wondering," and Brandon tried to stop the words coming out of his mouth but they showed no signs of slowing, "if you could pack me some kebabs and chips for take away? I mean, they're good for snacking…"

*

 _Hello, you've reached Carl. Chances are this call either interrupted a very important thought, in which case this had better be good, or woke me up from a sound sleep on my desk, in which case thank you. Leave a message and I'll get back when I can._

"Um. Right. This is Brandon, and um… when you get this you should open your front door. Because… well, I was just going to leave it anonymously and then I got back to my room and started worrying that you wouldn't open the door until Monday, and by that time the smell would kind of suck, so. Yes. Enjoy. Okay."

Brandon clicked his phone shut and collapsed on his bed with a groan.

*

 _19-11-2006  
From: Carlos Barat  
To: Brandon Flowers  
Subject: Speechless_

 _I am truly speechless. Thank you. Wanted to call in person, but I can’t seem to find my damn call list._

 _C_

 _*_

 _19-11-2006  
From: Brandon Flowers  
To: Carlos Barat  
Subject: Re: Speechless_

 _I hope you mean “I am speechless that someone would drop off a bag of random pub food at my flat and happily ate it all” and not “I am speechless at the idea that you are a crazy stalker”. Nick said you never eat while you work, and I have to pass by Queen’s to get home anyhow… Were the fags the right brand? I was kind of trying to match the box colors from memory._

 _Really not a stalker,  
B_

 _*_

 _20-11-2006  
From: Carlos Barat  
To: Brandon Flowers  
Subject: Re: re: Speechless_

 _Not a stalker at all. You are quite honestly remarkable, Mr. Flowers._

 _The rest of the chips have gone cold, and the chocolate biscuits you sent over are long gone, and I haven’t slept in almost 36 hours. I hate my laptop with a fiery passion. Why on EARTH did I think this topic was a good idea? Who gives a good god damn if Wittgenstein disagreed with Kant on ANYTHING? Most of the fucking country can’t even SPELL Wittgenstein._

 _Am down to one fag in the box you brought (exactly right, by the way) and I’m saving it as a reward for finishing this fucking thing. I’d ask you to bring another box, but I think that might be more of a distraction than I can deal with right now._

 _Am looking forward to Tuesday and Aristotle,  
C_

 _*_

 _20-11-2006  
From: Brandon Flowers  
To: Carlos Barat  
Subject: Re: re: re: Speechless_

 _If you ever want to see Ricky turn an unnatural shade of purple, just remind him that Wittgenstein was a commie pinko queen. The linguist in him has a shrine to the man in his closet, which I find oddly appropriate._

 _If I bring another box of biscuits to tutorial, will you promise to ignore the last third of my essay wherein I prove that I have NO POINT at ALL?_

 _B_

 _*_

 _21-11-2006  
From: Carlos Barat  
To: Brandon Flowers  
Subject: biscuits_

 _If you think I am cheap enough to be bought off by a box of Oreos, you are sadly mistaken. If you happen to find dark chocolate Tim Tams anywhere, then we’ll talk._

 _See you at 3:00._

 _C_

*

There was a chair in Carl’s office that was turned to face the window most of the time. It was an old, brown leather armchair, originally overstuffed and now worn down from half century of khaki-clad students. Carl was late for their weekly tutorial, and Brandon waited in the chair, watching the sky through the stained glass. It was warm, and Brandon loosened his tie a bit and pulled out his essay, hoping to get some last minute inspiration. He scooted around to get comfortable and swung a leg over the arm of the chair, his wallet chain jangling loudly against the brass rivets holding the arms together. Five minutes later he was still staring at the same word. Every footstep in the hall made him jump a little and Brandon shifted in the chair for a better view of the door. He fixed his hair. Twice.

Finally he just laid his head in his hands and groaned loudly at his own stupidity. Brandon had made it happily through two and a half years of university before he fell for the unattainable. It was bound to happen, and it sucked. And what made it even worse was remembering the look on Carl’s face at the pub that afternoon, and the feeling of his fingers, and the idea that _maybe_ , if the world were not patently unfair, there might be some sort of chance.

“Mr. Flowers?” Carl’s bemused voice cut through his fingers.

“Hey,” Brandon took a deep breath before looking up. Carl was smiling from the doorway, his leather bag slung over a shoulder and bumping his hip. He was in jeans, and scuffed black boots that thudded loudly against the wooden floors.

“Sorry I’m late. Dr. McKellen is quite the talker.” He slung his wool coat over the back of his chair and pulled off his charcoal blazer and scarf. His pale blue shirtsleeves were rolled up past his elbows and Brandon blinked quickly and looked down at the paper in his lap. His hands were sweaty and Brandon mentally chided himself. This is what Carl had always looked like. He hadn’t gotten exponentially _hotter_ in the last week. Though Brandon would bet money that he’d never seen Carl leave that third button undone at his collar before. The sheer volume of exposed skin there was enough to make Brandon blush.

“Not a problem. I’ve just been going over the paper again,” Brandon replied with forced nonchalance. “Still pretty much crap,” he added ruefully.

Carl smiled and pulled his copy of Brandon’s paper from his bag, twirling his pen between his fingers. “Not entirely. Though I have to agree… it sort of falls apart right here,” he noted, turning the paper to point to a highlighted paragraph.

Sighing heavily, Brandon leaned back into the armchair. “I know! I just… I thought I had a decent thesis, and then I realized I basically obliterated my own point here,” he pointed to a spot on the previous page and grimaced. “I talked myself into a corner.”

“You just _think_ you did.” Carl uncapped his pen with his teeth and moved his chair around to the side of desk so they could share one copy of the paper. “Here, look…”

About thirty minutes later, Brandon realized he’d stopped listening to Carl talk about Heidegger and had started wondering where Carl got the silver filigree ring he was rarely seen without, and if he always smelled this good. They were sitting close enough that Brandon’s knee bumped Carl’s occasionally and he kept getting distracted by the ink stain on Carl’s right thumb. Brandon leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He tilted his head slightly and bit his lip in concentration, trying to jump back into the conversation. No sense in having Carl think was an idiot on top of everything else.

But Carl suddenly trailed off halfway through a sentence. Brandon caught his eye and Carl stammered out a quick “Well, you know where I’m going with this, so…” before blinking and moving his chair back around to the opposite side of the desk. He cleared his throat and checked his watch, sighing a little at the time. “Looks like we have another fifteen minutes. Did you want to talk about the final essay at all?” Carl was studiously avoiding looking at him.

“I think I need another week to get primary sources together, actually.” Brandon sat back in the big chair and pulled one foot up, resting his chin on his knee.

Carl nodded absently. “You have Thomas on your list, right? And Frankle?”

“Duh.” Brandon grinned. “I do actually pay attention in class. Usually.”

“Right.” And Brandon wasn’t sure, but it looked like Carl was blushing lightly. “We’ll discuss it next week then. I’ve no doubt it will be brilliant, as usual, Mr. Flowers.”

Brandon laughed. “Thanks, but you don’t have to say that.”

“I mean it.” Carl slumped back in his chair, his pen dangling loosely from between two fingers. Brandon wondered if he always held pens like cigarettes. He tapped the pen against the desk nervously. When he spoke again, he sounded almost disappointed. “You’re one of my best students.”

“Thanks?” Brandon smiled wryly.

Carl laughed lightly. “No, that came out wrong,” he paused and glanced up through his lashes. “I… thank you. For everything you’ve done this week.”

His stomach flipped and Brandon put his foot down slowly, rubbing his hands on his pants. “It was nothing, really. Just… I thought you could use a friend.” He cringed inwardly at the triteness of the statement, but Carl stopped tapping and stared at him for a long moment.

“I didn’t think I did, but yeah. It helped a lot.”

Brandon could feel himself blushing and ducked his head, shoving his paper and notes back into his messenger bag. He glanced in and noticed the plastic bag shoved inside. “Oh! I totally forgot! Ricky loves these too, so I know all the places to find them in a ten mile radius.” He pulled a small rectangular box from the bag and placed it on Carl’s desk, grinning.

“Tim Tams.” Carl stared at the box, then over to Brandon with a huge smile. “You know I’m not changing that first essay grade. It was shite.”

Brandon laughed. “It was, I know. I figure it’ll take a lot more than a box of Tim Tams to get you to change that one.”

“What did you have in mind?” Carl picked up the box and happily set to tearing it open.

“Well, you have to start with flowers for something like that. Then, if that doesn’t work, one moves on to…” Brandon narrowly avoided ending the sentence with ‘sexual favors’, blushing crimson as Carl froze with his hand in the box.

“Brandon,” Carl’s voice took on that same low quality it had in the bar. “You know that this isn’t… We can’t…” He looked stricken, and all of Brandon’s butterflies froze in his chest and thudded to the bottom of his stomach.

His eyes went wide, his whole body tingling from embarrassment. Carl _knew_. Carl _knew_ how he felt because Brandon couldn’t keep his stupid crush hidden at _all_ and now it would be weird and awkward and awful. Fuck. “No, no, right. I mean, I know it’s nothing. I don’t want you to think the cookies were… they’re just cookies.” He stood up quickly, talking faster than normal and rushing to pull on his coat. “I don’t want you to think any of this was, like, a ploy for _grades_ or something. I just thought…” he stopped short, his hand on the doorknob. Carl was still staring at him with an unreadable expression. Brandon closed his eyes and exhales slowly. “I really like you, okay? Don’t worry. I’ll get over it.”

He had the door half open when a hand from over his shoulder slammed into it, shoving it closed. “Brandon, wait!” He could feel Carl warm behind him. “The bigger problem is... I don’t _want_ you to get over it.”

Brandon’s breath caught hard. He tried to turn and face Carl, but his other hand came up quickly, banging against the wall and trapping him between Carl’s arms, facing the door.

“Don’t. This will go much easier if I don’t have you _looking_ at me like that.”

“Like what?” Brandon couldn’t suppress a slight smile, and shivered when Carl leaned in closer, his breath warm on Brandon’s neck.

“Like you did before. With the little lip biting thing. That was patently unfair, Flowers.”

“Sorry,” Brandon breathed, leaning back involuntarily.

Carl’s forehead dropped to Brandon’s shoulder, dark hair falling over his collar and tickling his neck. It took every drop of energy he had to keep his hands from reaching up to touch it. “We can’t. _I_ can’t. For the next five weeks, I am your instructor for this course, and I can’t risk losing my position here. Do you understand that?”

“Yes. Of course I do. I never thought,”

“Okay. Just so that’s clear.” Carl lifted his head and leaned close enough that his nose nudged Brandon’s neck. He shivered as Carl let out a stuttered sigh. “You get no special treatment in this class. Nothing is going to happen until grades are completed and handed in. There will be no more biscuits at my door, no flowers, nothing.”

Brandon nodded and tightened his grip on the doorknob.

“After that… we’ll talk, okay?” Carl’s voice dropped on the last phrase and Brandon squeezed his eyes shut. He was hard and, if he were to take a bet from Carl’s breathing, he wasn’t the only one. His whole body ached to turn around and surge into him, kiss him, find out what Carl tasted like under the chocolate Tim Tams and cigarettes. He forced himself deathly still.

“Five weeks?” His voice sounded strained in his own ears.

“Five weeks.” Carl was farther away now, leaning back so Brandon could open the door.

“Okay, then.”

He opened the door just enough to slip out and fled down the hall, but not before catching a glimpse of Carl, flushed and panting in the half-open doorway.  



	4. Chapter 4

  
It took Brandon all of two days to break down and tell Ricky, late one night in their small dorm room. The conversation was strangely predictable.

“He didn’t…” Ricky was breathless and giddy and Brandon was flushed from the memory of Carl’s voice in his ear.

“He did. And we can’t, you know, _now_. But once the term is over...”

“Jesus, mate. That’s… how long is that?”

Brandon sighed. “Five weeks.” Actually it was 32 days and 20 hours before his last paper was due in to Carl, and he figured another couple before grades were done, but five weeks was a good estimate.

“That’s not so long,” Ricky grinned at him, eyes wide and bright.

“Easy for you to say,” Brandon laughed feebly. “You aren’t the one who has to sit in tutorial with him for the next five weeks and pretend like this didn’t happen. Or isn’t going to happen, or whatever.” He flopped back onto the floor with a sigh and blinked at the light fixture. “I can’t even think about him without getting all…” he finished with a flustered hand flourish.

Ricky lay down next to him, ankles crossed and his arms folded under his head. They’d had so many important conversations just like this, side by side, staring at the ceiling. It was comforting. “I wish I had better advice, but I’m still stuck on the bit where he trapped you against the door.”

He could hear the grin in Ricky’s voice and whacked him on the arm. “Thanks, asshole.”

Ricky laughed loudly. “Come _on_! That’s, like, the fantasy of half the student body! You’ve got the hottest guy on campus after you. And to think, freshman year, you were just a sad little Yank closet case. I feel so proud.” He sniffled dramatically and Brandon giggled.

They lay still for a few moments before Brandon spoke quietly. “I like him, Ricky. I mean, I really… I think this might be something. Real.”

Ricky’s fingers curled around his on the rug. “Good. You deserve it.”

“You aren’t mad then?” he turned his head to see Ricky’s face.

“About what?” Ricky turned to him with a smile.

“I don’t know. If I’d bet on Carl hitting on one of us, it would have been you.”

Ricky shook his head. “That’s why you should never gamble, babe. You suck at it.” He squeezed Brandon’s hand reassuringly and stood up, pulling Brandon with him. “Now. We need to figure out a game plan that will keep you from exploding in the next five weeks. Possibly some sort of ‘sock on the door’ system so I know when you’re in here masturbating like crazy.”

Brandon doubled over, laughing and flushed. “Fuck you.”

“Thanks, but I don’t fool around with other people’s boyfriends. Especially when they control this term’s philosophy grade.” Ricky wagged his finger seriously at Brandon.

Brandon launched himself into Ricky’s arms and hugged him tight. “You’re the best mate ever, you know that?”

Ricky hugged him back and kissed his temple. “Yeah, I am.”

*

It was about ten minutes into their next tutorial when Carl and Brandon mutually decided that they were both extremely thirsty, and it would be a far better idea to hold the session in the Starbucks on the corner, with all those _people_ in it. Brandon didn’t see the inside of Carl’s office for the rest of the term.

*

The first week of December, Ricky and Brandon were sitting at the bar at McCullum’s listening to Nick talk about his thesis. Nick was getting his Ph.D. in Maths, so they both pretty much nodded and smiled as Nick waved his arms around. The back booth of the pub was already covered with bits of paper and open texts and calculators and notebooks full of Nick’s scribblings. It was “Nick’s booth” and it looked like that every term for about a month. Nick did all his work in McCullum’s taking breaks to tend bar, or talk to a professor, or play darts. Paul spent most of the month gently prodding Nick back to the booth, shoving him into his seat and kissing the top of his head.

Nick was just beginning a very profound treatise on recurring numbers in pi when Brandon excused himself to the loo. When he got back a few minutes later, Nick was talking animatedly to a small group. Ricky caught his eye and waved him back over with a wink. “Saved your seat,” he mouthed, smiling.

He stopped short a few steps from the bar. Carl was leaning on his elbows, laughing at Nick’s use of liquor bottles as stand-ins for prime numbers. He was wearing jeans again, and his black Docs kicked at the brass bar under the stools. A rumpled navy blazer was tight across his shoulders and his dark hair fell gently over his eyes as he sipped his scotch. Brandon’s mouth went dry. The seat Ricky had saved was next to Carl.

 _Please_ , Brandon sent Ricky a quick mental plea, _do not embarrass me._

But Ricky was on his fourth drink of the night; he leaned back and swung his arm open wide. “Brandon!” Brandon flinched as Carl’s head whipped around. “Come on, mate! Saved you the best seat in the house! Barat here is trying to make Nick’s head explode by trying to get him to define numbers.”

Brandon took a deep breath and smiled thinly at Carl, sliding into the barstool. Carl just blinked at him and turned quickly back to his drink, finishing it in a quick gulp. Nick paused long enough to refill Brandon’s pint glass and looked back at Carl. “This is three bottles, here. One, two, three,” he pointed. “How much more do you need?”

“Yes,” Carl countered, “but who decided that was three? When I think ‘three’, am I supposed to think of these bottles? What IS three?”

Nick’s eyes bulged as he pointed again. “ _Three_! God!”

Carl laughed again and Brandon could feel him vibrating against his shoulder. He leaned toward the sensation involuntarily. Ricky leaned over him to ask Carl about his background in mathematics, shoving Brandon’s stool closer to Carl. “Thought you were more of a linguist, Barat.” Brandon closed his eyes and poked Ricky in the ribs. “Ow!”

Carl cleared his throat and twitched slightly as Brandon’s thigh was pressed against his. He took a breath and smiled at Ricky, relaxing against Brandon until they were touching from hip to knee. Brandon grinned into his glass. “I am, but its fun to wind Nicky up. Everything’s so black and white to the maths guys.” Nick slid him another drink with a small glare.

Ricky grinned at him cheekily. “And you, you’re all about the grey area, aren’t you?”

Brandon choked on his drink and turned to stare at Ricky wildly.

“Actually,” Carl replied, eyes narrowing, “I’m pretty sure I know where all the boundaries are.”

Brandon groaned and put his head down on the bar. “’m too drunk for this shite.”

Ricky just smiled and leaned on Brandon until he was tipping out of his chair. Carl caught him with a hand on his elbow. “You all right, Mr. Flowers?” he asked ruefully.

Brandon shook his head and opened his mouth to reply when a pretty boy from his Lit class appeared behind him. “Dance, then?” he asked Brandon with a tip of his head. The music was turned up and there were a good number of people dancing in the back of the pub.

Carl slowly unfolded his fingers from Brandon’s arm and sat back. “Sure,” Brandon answered, his eyes never leaving Carl’s face. He slammed back the rest of his pint and dropped his coat in Ricky’s lap, letting the boy drag him to the back of the room. The song was unfamiliar but there was a heavy bass and Brandon let himself get swept up in it. He didn’t want to think of what Ricky was saying to Carl at the bar, after Brandon had made it perfectly clear that _no one_ could know about the ‘five weeks’ plan. The boy (whose name Brandon couldn’t think of through the haze of alcohol and the humming in his veins he always got when Carl was nearby) slid closer to him as the music sped up, sliding an arm around Brandon’s waist.

Brandon closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again he could see Carl staring at him. He was leaning with his elbows propped against the bar, a bottle of Guinness dangling from his long fingers. Ricky was next to him, smirking. He said something too fast for Brandon to make out, but Carl didn’t seem to hear him. He lifted the bottle and took a long sip, eyes never leaving Brandon. Brandon licked his lips and smiled when Carl’s fingers tightened on the bottleneck. He leaned in to the boy, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and slipping one leg between his thighs, swaying against him. Brandon was already half hard and his eyes fluttered at the friction. When he could focus again, Carl had gone deathly still. Ricky’s smirk slipped as the boy slid a hand down Brandon’s back and cupped his ass, pulling them closer. Brandon’s breath caught, mouth open and panting, his eyes never leaving Carl.

All of sudden, his view of Carl was gone as the boy tipped his head to kiss him, slipping his tongue into Brandon’s waiting mouth. It took him a shocked moment to struggle against it, by which time Ricky was at his side, peeling the boy off and dragging Brandon back toward the front of the room with a whispered “Let’s get you home, okay?”

When they reached the bar, Carl was gone.

*

“What did I do?” Brandon whispered for the third time since Ricky had dragged him back to their room, shoving a glass of water at him and folding him into bed. Ricky was curled up next to him, fingers petting his hair in gentle circles.

“You didn’t do anything. It was nothing.”

“I _kissed_ that guy!” Brandon’s voice was high and uneven. “What the fuck was I thinking, dancing with him?”

“You were thinking that your best friend was an arse, and you wanted out. It’s my fault.” Ricky sighed. “Look. It wasn’t anything. It was a _show_. I knew it, and Carl knew it, okay?”

“He left…”

“Yeah, well. He was off his stool the second that guy kissed you, and I had to grab him to keep him from heading over there.” Ricky grinned. “I think he would have decked the kid.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Stop worrying. He’s not an idiot.” But Ricky stayed curled up with him all night, reassuring and warm.

The next morning Brandon had an email from Carl in his inbox. He sat at his desk for five minutes, breathing shallow and skin prickling with nervous heat, unable to open it. When Ricky got back from his shower, he shook his head and leaned over Brandon to click Carl’s name.

 _  
2-12-06  
To: Brandon Flowers  
From: Carlos Barat  
Subject: About last night…_

 _Twenty days._

 _C_

*

Their next tutorial (in Starbucks) was oddly normal, mainly because Carl was distracted by the upcoming meeting with his thesis committee. He kept running his fingers through his hair and saying things like “I’ve spent nearly a year on this so far and they could hate the whole fucking thing.”

“They won’t,” Brandon tried to reassure him. Carl was clearly going to spend the next few sleepless nights staring at his computer. When he got up to leave, he let himself put a hand on Carl’s shoulder, letting his thumb sneak under Carl’s collar to brush the skin under his ear, smiling when Carl shivered lightly. “You’re brilliant.”

Carl smiled up at him. “You’re biased.”

“Not yet,” he replied with a smile and left sipping his overpriced latte.

*

 _11-12-06  
To: Carlos Barat  
From: Brandon Flowers  
Subject: I know I promised not to…_

[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/eleanor_lavish/pic/000tw92p)

_Eat something. Breathe. You are, in fact, brilliant._

 _B_

*

The phone rang a little after one o’clock in the morning and Brandon reached for it blindly, knocking his watch of his nightstand. He didn’t know the number but flipped it open anyway with a groan. “If you lost your keys again, I’m going to kill you.”

The chuckle on the other end of the line was decidedly not Ricky. “I know exactly where they are, actually,” Carl exhaled and Brandon could practically see the smoke rising around him.

“Hey,” he replied stupidly.

“Hey.” Carl’s voice was strained, tired.

“How did the committee meeting go?” Brandon held his breath, hoping for good news.

“Okay. There were few critical notes, but otherwise they agreed that I’m on the right track. No massive rewrites or throwing myself from high towers this time round.” He could tell Carl was trying to keep his voice light.

“Told you so,” Brandon breathed sleepily. “Want to tell me why you’re calling, or do I have to guess?”

Carl was silent for a moment and Brandon mentally chided himself. It’s not that he wasn’t _happy_ Carl called. Carl exhaled again, slowly. “Wanted to hear your voice.”

Brandon grinned and turned onto his side, cradling the phone between his ear and the pillow. “Any particular reason, or just because?”

“Pete called today.” Carl said it without any inflection at all, and Brandon didn’t have to ask how that conversation had gone.

“Are you okay?” he asked, almost whispering.

Carl’s laugh was hollow, and Brandon could hear him lighting another cigarette. “Yeah, fine. He’s staying in Minsk. His cousins told him he couldn’t stay there anymore, but he feels like he’s making progress on his book so he staying with some _friends_.”

Brandon closed his eyes and sighed.

“It’s not like I had any more luck keeping an eye on him when he lived in London, but Minsk… I know he’s using. I think he was high when he called.”

Carl didn’t sound angry about it. He sounded _lost_ , and Brandon ached to be there. “I wish I could come over.”

“Me too.” Carl took a shaky breath. “I just don’t want to think about it. Talk to me, okay?”

“About what?” Brandon reached out and picked at the peeling paint on his wall with a fingernail. He pictured Carl in his flat, worn jeans, bare feet, overflowing ashtray on his nightstand. He wondered if Carl was wearing a shirt and felt himself flush when Carl’s voice interrupted his thought.

“Anything. Tell me one good thing that happened to you today.”

“Well,” Brandon smiled. “I was sleeping and the phone rang and it was a boy I like who wanted to talk to me.”

Carl laughed lightly. “I hope you told this boy to fuck off. ”

Brandon made a small shocked noise. “Now why would I do that? He was a perfectly nice boy.”

“You’re spoken for.” Carl’s voice was like warm honey and Brandon shivered. His cock felt heavy in his flimsy boxers and Brandon turned to press his groin into the mattress.

“Yeah?” he asked, breathless.

“Yeah,” Carl murmured.

Brandon settled on his stomach. “Tell me something about you. Something I don’t know.”

“Like what,” Carl was smiling now, and Brandon closed his eyes and pictured himself pushing the hair out of Carl’s eyes.

“Well, there is some confusion, Mr. Carlos Barat, as to where you are from.” Brandon grinned as Carl chuckled in his ear.

“Is there now?”

In his mind, Brandon straddled Carl’s legs, running his fingers down Carl’s chest to hook in the waist of his jeans. “Mmhmm,” he said, distracted. He moved his hips slightly and inhaled sharply at the friction. “At least tell me you have a normal middle name, like Edward, or Herbert.”

He laughed again. “Sadly, no.”

“What is it?” Brandon sighed as he hitched his hips again.

“I’m not telling,” Carl noted wryly.

“Why not?”

“You’ll laugh.”

Brandon gritted his teeth as he managed to rock his hips _just so_ , scraping the fabric of his boxers over the head of his cock. He blushed furiously and stilled. “Probably,” Brandon managed to answer. “But you still have to tell me.”

Carl groaned and Brandon pictured him throwing his head back, leaving his neck exposed. Brandon leaned in and gently ran his tongue from… “Carlos Ashley Raphael Barat.”

Brandon laughed. “Seriously?”

“Shut it.” Carl was laughing too, and Brandon’s skin was on fire. He threw off his blanket and shoved a hand between the mattress and his body, sliding it down. Just as Carl was saying “My mother is truly insane,” Brandon wrapped his fingers around his cock and _whimpered_. Loudly.

 _Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck_. He prayed Carl hadn’t noticed.

“Brandon,” Carl sounded a little concerned and Brandon suppressed a hysterical laugh.

“Yeah?” Brandon held his breath as he tried to slow his hand.

“Are you…” Brandon let out a stuttered breath and Carl inhaled, hard and fast. “Fuck, Brandon. You are, aren’t you.”

Brandon bit his lip and felt his whole body flush with embarrassment. It was a mirror of the afternoon in Carl’s office, when he had looked at Brandon and just _known_. But that, he reminded himself, had not ended all that badly.

“Brand?” Carl’s voice was low and strained and Brandon abandoned all hope of stopping. He rolled onto his back and slid his boxers down his hips with a violent shove.

As he wrapped his fingers back round his cock, he hissed and pulled the phone closer to his ear. “Put out your cigarette.”

“Wha… why?” Carl sounded far away and Brandon swallowed hard.

“Because if I’m doing this, you’re doing it with me.” He hit that perfect rhythm, the kind he could ride for a long time and arched his head back into the pillow, groaning softly.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Carl practically growled in his ear just as Brandon brushed the head of his cock with his thumb. The combination was like a jolt of lightning, arching his hips off the mattress with a stuttered cry.

Carl was panting now, and he could hear rustling noises over the rush of blood in his ears. “Are you…? I want to hear you. Want to hear you say my name when you come.”

“Oh, _God_ , Brandon…” Carl’s voice was ragged and broken, like the sound of Brandon was enough, like he could come just listening to Brandon get himself off. The idea of that was enough to make Brandon bold, or maybe a little crazy, and he started talking, babbling between strokes, planting his heel on the mattress to angle his hips better.

“Love your voice, and your hands… think about you all the time, now, about you touching me, fucking me…” he broke off as Carl moaned in his ear. “Do you think about me? God, Carl…” he arched again, clutching the phone in a vice grip.

“…Yeah.” Carl’s reply was breathy, hidden in the stuttered breaths coming from the phone. Then, louder, “I think about you, too…”

Brandon smiled and whimpered. “In bed, right? In the shower? In your office, sitting behind that big desk?”

“ _Christ,_ ” Carl panted, “Yes. Fuck, this is…”

“H-how do you imagine it? Are you fucking me on the desk, papers everywhere?” And Brandon was amazed he could still form words, he was so close.

“On your knees,” Carl growled through the phone and that was all Brandon needed, coming hard and keening through Carl’s whispered description of what Brandon’s mouth would look like wrapped around his cock.

He was still floating, listening to Carl and feeling his body settle back to the mattress when he whispered, “Wanna taste you. Soon.” Carl made an incoherent noise and rode out his own orgasm to the sound of Brandon murmuring “Wish I could see you… fucking gorgeous… can’t wait much longer.”

Brandon’s eyes were almost closed when Carl’s voice drifted over him again, sleepy and smiling. “Brand?”

“Hmm?” He grabbed a shirt from the floor and wiped himself clean, tossing to the foot of his bed. He hoped it wasn’t Ricky’s.

“That was…”

“Yeah,” Brandon yawned and turned toward the phone. “Sorry about that.”

“I’m not.” Carl laughed quietly.

“Good.”

Carl sighed. “Wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

“Two weeks, right?” Brandon pulled the covers up and curled under them. “We can do two weeks.”

“If you even _touch_ me in the next two weeks, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.”

Brandon grinned. “Understood.”

“Go to sleep. I know you have at least one essay due in on Tuesday.”

“’Night you heartless bastard.” He clicked the phone shut to the sound of Carl laughing.

*

Five days before his papers were all due, Brandon was pretty sure he lived in the library and could claim such under squatter’s rights. He thought this as he was hastily drinking down the mocha he’d picked up that morning; the one the guards adamantly refused to let him enter the stacks with. He tossed the cup in the trash and climbed in the elevator, holding the door as he heard footsteps running. The old stacks elevators were notoriously slow, and Brandon hated people who didn’t hold them.

The footsteps came to an abrupt halt and Brandon glanced up to see Carl standing there, flustered. “Get in.” Brandon grinned. “Or you’ll be out there for ten minutes.”

Carl shook his head and smiled, walking in and stepping to the far side of the car. He was in a grey suit with a waistcoat today, and slouched against the wall of the ancient elevator, he could have been any Oxford student from the 1940’s. Brandon smiled at his feet and tried not to stare.

They hadn’t seen each other since The Call, as Ricky had taken to calling it (Brandon made yet another mental note not to tell Ricky things anymore) and Brandon was surprised at the lack of butterflies now. Maybe it was easier being around Carl when all of his nervous energy was already in use, worrying about finals.

They made it one floor without incident, Brandon heroically not brushing his hand against Carl’s when he leaned over to press his floor button. On the third, the doors opened to reveal a group of about a dozen people laden with cameras and wool coats. A girl in a blazer stood in front saying “Okay, everyone! We’ll be taking the stacks elevator up three floors to the manuscript wing!”

The elevator had been built for a dozen people total, but the whole group squeezed on together. Brandon and Carl were bounced to the back of the car, Brandon moving again to let an older woman with a cane lean against the safety bar on the back wall. One more push and everyone was in, and Brandon was pressed flush against Carl’s chest by some kid’s backpack.

The tour guide began talking about the library renovations, and the ornate carvings of the interior façade. All Brandon could feel was _Carl_ , and he looked up to see Carl's eyes get incredibly dark, his lips parting just a little. Carl was basically staring at what amounted to Brandon's ear, and Brandon couldn’t help it when someone shifted behind him and threw him a little further into Carl, one of his thighs brushing the front of Carl’s trousers. Carl took a sharp, quick breath and closed his eyes. Brandon tried very hard not to scream as the elevator bumped them slowly up the floors, his lips dangerously close to Carl’s collarbone.

At the manuscript floor, everyone filed off to follow their guide and Brandon eased back away from Carl, retreating to the other side of the car as the door slid shut. Carl opened his eyes finally and took deep breath while Brandon released a shaky one.

“Well, that was…” he started, catching Brandon’s eye.

And suddenly they both began laughing hysterically, leaning back against the walls and staring at each other. They hit Brandon's floor first, and he walked out of the elevator backwards, still grinning at Carl.

Carl smiled back, leaning forward as the elevator doors slid shut to say “Five days, Mr. Flowers.”

  



	5. Chapter 5

  
It was one week to the day later that Brandon found himself in McCullum’s, nestled up against the back bar with Ricky on one side and Bob on the other, doing his third shot of something with Schnapps in it. Carl hadn’t called at all during the week, and Brandon only caught sight of him once, scurrying across campus with his wool coat pulled tight against the cold wind. His bag had been overflowing with essays and pens and bits of paper, and he looked frankly miserable. Brandon was on his way to sit for an exam in Roman history so he was pretty sure he didn’t look much better.

His final essay for tutorial was handed in with minutes to spare two days earlier, and he was grateful beyond belief that Carl wasn’t in the office when he handed it in. _Something_ would have happened, he was sure, as his entire body felt ready to snap. Five weeks of stolen touches and emails and Carl looking at him like he was candy and Brandon was about ready to explode. Instead, he’d gone home, jerked off to the memory of Carl’s growl in his ear, and waited for Carl to call.

Two days of Brandon jumping at the sound of the phone was apparently Ricky’s limit, because the second he came home from his last exam, he threw Brandon’s coat at him, stuck both their cell phones in his pocket and walked out the door. Brandon followed the phone.

Now he was pleasantly buzzed and had finally given up trying to fish his phone out of Ricky’s pocket. “It’s on vibrate, love. I’ll tell you if he calls,” Ricky had smiled at him, nodding to Nick for another round. “He’s grading like mad in that little flat of his, red pen dangling from his fingers like an evil fag…” Brandon snorted at the image, and then blinked slowly as he tried to picture the flat for the hundredth time that day, and Carl in it. All he could glimpse were snippets—Carl’s fingers, Carl’s hair over one eye, Carl’s hips in his favorite jeans, Carl’s neck. It’s like his psyche had decided that a picture of the entirety of Carl Barat was enough to kill Brandon, so it was shielding him.

Paul sidled up to the bar, stealing a pint glass of stout from Nick on the way and pointing to the back booth. Nick’s thesis committee met at noon the next day, and the delicate dance they’d set up was, as usual, crumbling.

“I don’t _want_ to,” Nick whined like a child.

“I don’t give a fuck. You are off duty for the rest of the night. I have no qualms about firing you, McCarthy.” Paul smiled when he said it, but his stance was firm and his arms crossed, blocking Nick’s path back to the bar.

“I hate you,” Nick stated dramatically as he walked a deathly slow march back to the booth. “I hate you, and maths, and this _pen_!” He picked it up from the table and shook it back at them.

Paul laughed and ran up behind him, catching him around the waist and kissing his neck. Brandon couldn’t hear what he said next, but Nick pushed him away with a laugh and sat down in the booth.

“I wonder what sort of favors one gets when one finishes their thesis?” Ricky whispered conspiratorially. Bob grinned and wagged his eyebrows.

“The best kind, I think.”

Paul ducked under the bar and took to refilling their glasses. “So,” he asked over his shoulder. “Any of you fine gentlemen sticking around for the holidays this year?”

Brandon got a little cold, thinking of the plane ticket sitting in his dorm room, bought back when he didn’t know that he wouldn’t want to go home. He was leaving for Vegas in less than three days and wouldn’t be back until the start of next term. Over two weeks. Two _more_ weeks. He glanced at Ricky’s pocket.

“Nah,” Bob finished his drink and reached for the fresh one. “The family is expecting me. And Gerry, God help us all.” Paul poked him in the arm and Bob flinched back. Bob’s girlfriend Gerry was one of Paul’s favorite people. Ricky shook his head too; he was heading home tomorrow.

“Too bad,” Paul noted. “If anything happens, you know where you can come, yeah? McCullum’s Christmas feast will be served at promptly 3pm, Christmas Day.”

“Someday, I will have to come for this, just to see McKellen and Smith hammered together.” Ricky laughed and Brandon leaned into him, sighing happily. He turned to Bob and asked about Andy’s holiday plans as Ricky leaned over the bar and stage whispered, “Hey, Thomson? Is it true that McKellen’s holiday isn’t complete without referencing…” he trailed off suddenly with a laugh and Brandon turned to see. Before he got halfway around on the stool, two strong hands came to rest on the bar on either side of him, trapping him. Brandon stopped breathing.

“Knew you’d be here.” The body behind him pressed in close and Brandon’s eyes fluttered closed as Carl’s voice rumbled in his ear. “All of my essays are done, all of my grades have been turned in, and as of this moment…”

He didn’t even finish the thought before Brandon pushed back into him, spinning off his stool and grabbing his coat in one hand and Carl’s hand in the other. They were at the door when Ricky pulled them up short, pressing Brandon’s phone into his hands. “Next time, just call, Barat.” He shook his head, grinning.

Carl smiled back with way more calm than Brandon felt. “But this was so much more satisfying.”

“I can think of other, much more satisfying things,” Brandon muttered under his breath, tugging his coat on quickly and pulling Carl into the street. They paused just outside the door, Carl pulling him close enough that their noses brushed for a moment.

“If I kiss you right now…” Carl was breathless and Brandon moaned softly. No kissing, no _nothing_ until they were safely behind closed doors. If Carl kissed him here, Brandon was sure they’d end up arrested for indecency.

Brandon tugged himself away, panting and grinning. “Race you.”

  
*

Carl actually dropped his keys in the hall twice, though Brandon took responsibility for the second time. His hand had closed around Carl’s wrist, scratching lightly over the delicate skin. The keys hit the ground with a second clatter and Carl shook his head and muttered as Brandon laughed, a little hysterically. “Not helping, Flowers.” Brandon took a full step back as Carl turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open with a shove.

They walked inside almost in slow motion, Brandon pausing at the doorway as Carl shook his jacket off and threw it over a chair. The door opened onto a small foyer, and Brandon could see a tiny kitchen over Carl’s shoulder, and a room off of that. The bedroom. He closed the door behind him with a click.

The tiny sound was enough to jolt them both forward and into each other, Carl’s hands both coming up to cup Brandon’s face, Brandon’s fingers buried in the fabric of Carl’s shirt. Carl’s mouth was hot and insistent, tongue sliding over Brandon’s lower lip until he whimpered. His fingers tightened minutely on Brandon’s neck, tilting his head back as Brandon’s lips parted. Carl tasted a little of smoke and a lot of mint and coffee, and the perfectness of that combination made Brandon a little dizzy.

The kiss was a full body event as they both clamored for as much contact as possible, arms winding around waists and necks, fingers slipping under shirts and into belt loops. Carl finally got tired of wrestling with Brandon’s coat and shoved it roughly off his shoulders, tossing it across the room where it landed with a thud from Brandon’s iPod. “Sorry,” he murmured against Brandon’s lips, but Brandon just yanked harder on Carl’s tie, pulling it free and throwing it in the opposite direction with a smile.

When Brandon’s hand slid down Carl’s back to his ass, Carl kissed him so forcefully that Brandon actually stumbled back a few steps and hit the door with a thump. Carl followed, pressing Brandon against the painted wood, fingers working on the buttons of Brandon’s shirt. He finally got it open, but by then he had Brandon squeezed between the door and his body and the shirt just hung open as Carl’s hands slipped inside. Brandon’s knees buckled just a little as Carl’s fingers brushed a nipple. Carl caught him with one thigh slipped between his, making Brandon buck and gasp. Brandon tightened his fingers in Carl’s belt loops and yanked hard, making Carl stumble forward and brace one arm on the door next to his head. They were fit together like puzzle pieces, Brandon pressing slowly into Carl’s groin with an angling of his hips. Carl shuddered against him and Brandon smiled. Carl pressed up and into him until Brandon was almost on his toes, and Brandon’s eyes rolled back in his head. They were both so incredibly hard, and Brandon had a fleeting thought of _bed, move_ , but Carl was moving against him again, breath laced with a whimper against Brandon’s neck.

“Carl,” he exhaled, panting as little shock waves flew through him. One arm was hooked around Carl’s neck, holding him close as Carl’s tongue traced hot lines down his neck, teeth scraping his collarbone. With the other arm, he reached out to grasp the doorknob for balance. He cried out as Carl’s fingers wrapped around his hips, grinding them against his own.

“Brand,” Carl’s voice was _pained_ in his ear, like this was all too much, too fast, and Brandon agreed even as he rolled into each of Carl’s thrusts. They were like a runaway train, both of them looking for a brake, a way to slow down; both of them knowing it was futile. Carl lifted his head and looked at him, eyes wide and dark, and Brandon moaned and tugged him into a deep kiss, his hips rolling in time with his tongue as Carl’s hands slowly slid up his sides, ghosting over his back, his stomach, his shoulders. The fire in his belly was intense, his legs all pins and needles. He was going to come, right here in Carl’s little foyer, still mostly dressed. He blushed hotly, embarrassed for a moment before Carl gasped against his mouth, fingers tightening in Brandon’s belt loops and hips jerking erratically.

“Yes,” Brandon breathed, lips barely brushing Carl’s as they both shuddered. He released the doorknob to push the hair from Carl’s sweat-soaked forehead. They slid against each other in tight tempo, speeding up, Brandon’s fingers pulling Carl’s hair, Carl biting roughly at Brandon’s shoulder before he froze with a gasped “Fuck” and shivered with a harsh groan right in Brandon’s ear. The sound of Carl coming for him, _because of him_ , and one more roll of his hips against Carl’s solid thigh was enough to set Brandon off, his head thumping back into the door, mouth open wide in amazement.

It took Brandon a long moment to come down, blinking at the ragged light fixture on the ceiling. His whole body was buzzing and warm, though waves of that were from Carl, still pressed against him with his forehead resting on Brandon’s shoulder. He slipped his arms around Carl’s waist.

“Hey,” Brandon whispered. “You okay?”

Carl laughed shakily. “Yeah, good.” He lifted his head slowly. “This wasn’t really my plan.”

“You had a plan, huh?” Brandon grinned at him, rolling his shoulders a little, sore from where they had been pressed into the door’s ancient molding.

“Mmm,” he hummed and leaned in to kiss Brandon’s jaw gently. “Big seduction scene. Figured I’d at least get all my clothes off.” He glanced down ruefully at his still-buttoned shirt.

“I guess we were tired of waiting,” Brandon replied, still slightly dazed. He leaned forward and let his shirt slip off his shoulders to the floor before reaching out to undo Carl’s shirt slowly from the bottom. “Just needed a little something to take the edge off.”

“ _A little something_?” Carl’s eyebrows rose as he shook his head. “I still can’t feel my feet.”

Brandon laughed and tugged his shirt open, pausing to stare for a moment at Carl’s chest, miles of perfect olive skin under his fingers. Carl tugged the sleeves off his wrists and tossed the shirt into a corner before leaning back in and pulling Brandon close. Pressed into Carl’s chest, skin on skin, Brandon sighed happily. The edginess that had plagued him for half the term was gone and he smiled as Carl kissed the bite on his shoulder gently.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his nose nuzzling Brandon’s neck. Brandon ducked his head a bit and kissed him again, slow and soft. “You know what I think?” he whispered against Brandon’s cheek.

Brandon ran a hand in sweeping strokes over Carl’s back. “I think we really need to get out of these trousers.”

Carl chuckled and pulled back a fraction. “Great minds, Mr. Flowers…” and suddenly Brandon was shivering again as Carl pulled him toward the bedroom, his fingers deftly tackling the rest of his clothes.  



	6. Chapter 6

  
Carl’s bedroom wasn’t exactly how Brandon had pictured it. It was less of a mess, but more full of clutter—books and papers on every surface, dark curtains on the windows, a series of arty black and white photographs on the wall surrounded by other, more personal ones. Brandon only recognized a few faces as he glanced around.

“It’s not much,” Carl noted sheepishly from the doorway. Brandon turned to look at him, feet now bare against the hardwood floors. He was gorgeous and Brandon blinked for moment, trying to memorize the image as Carl slowly undid his jeans and slid them past his hips.

“What?” Carl smiled and shook his hair back out of his eyes.

“Nothing, I just…” Brandon couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. He looked down at his own bare feet, shoes and socks lost somewhere in Carl’s tiny kitchen. Carl’s feet were there too, suddenly, and he held his breath as Carl’s fingers slipped his unbuttoned jeans past his hips, thumbs sliding slowly over Brandon’s skin. He stepped out of them when they pooled around his feet, kicking them under Carl’s desk.

Carl laughed and Brandon’s heart almost stopped. He was flushed suddenly, a mixture of shyness and _want_ he’d never felt before. It was just this side of terrifying until Carl slid a hand around his waist and pulled him close, resting his forehead against Brandon’s.

“I could stay like this for days,” he spoke quietly, his hand warm and solid on Brandon’s back. “Just being able to touch you is…” he trailed off with a half-smile and a shrug.

“I know,” Brandon answered, sliding his arms around Carl’s neck. They stood there for a long moment, still and quiet, before Brandon tipped his head and kissed Carl softly. It escalated quickly, Carl pulling Brandon flush against him with a slight groan. Brandon’s hands tangled in Carl’s hair, a silky, dark canopy over his cheek. Carl was already half hard against his thigh. Brandon took a step back toward the bed with a small smile. “You know they actually make _furniture_ for this.”

Carl grinned and kissed him lightly, murmuring “How incredibly conventional” before walking Brandon backward toward the bed. Brandon was on it in a heartbeat, sighing at the feeling of Carl’s sheets under his skin, freshly laundered. Of course. Because Carl had been planning on this for as long as Brandon.

“C’mere,” he barely had the word out before Carl was crawling up the bed toward him, hair over one eye. There wasn’t a trace of a smile anymore; Carl was intensely focused, pausing to kiss Brandon’s stomach. Carl’s tongue flicked against his skin and he shivered. “Fuck.”

He nosed against Brandon’s collar, breathing hard already, and Brandon’s hands slid slowly down his sides over skin so smooth it was almost distracting. Carl really was almost perfect, solid thighs, flawless skin, dusky nipples that rose to a bud as Brandon’s thumb brushed over them. But it was the _sounds_ that were driving Brandon back to the edge. Carl was surprisingly vocal, all hitched breaths and words murmured into Brandon’s neck as they lay together, tangled, shifting and touching. Brandon flashed to that late night in his bed, Carl’s voice low in his ear, telling him…

“Up,” Brandon ordered against Carl’s mouth and Carl lifted his weight enough that Brandon could roll him over, surprised but smiling. Brandon grinned wickedly as he rose to his knees and settled on the bed between Carl’s splayed legs. He caught Carl’s eyes and didn’t break contact as he wrapped his fingers around Carl’s cock. He licked his lips, slowly and deliberately, watching Carl’s eyes darken, his mouth open. “I seem to remember something about you wanting to see me on my knees?” Brandon almost laughed as Carl exhaled long and hard, hips lifting into Brandon’s light strokes.

“ _Shit_ ,” Carl’s eyelids fluttered as Brandon leaned in to suck the crown slowly into his mouth, but when he looked up Carl was still watching, slightly dazed with his lips parted. Brandon could taste Carl, still a bit slick from coming in the hall, and he moaned softly against hot skin. His tongue made a long sweep around the head of Carl’s cock and Carl’s fingers were in his hair, tightening as he increased the suction; Brandon’s cheeks hollowing as Carl groaned above him. Carl was hard again in minutes, panting, and Brandon slipped his fingers over the sheen of sweat on Carl’s smooth stomach, the muscles straining for control. His own cock brushed the sheets with every shift of his body, sending sparks behind his closed eyes. “Brandon,” Carl gasped and Brandon knew he was close. He pulled off wetly, one last pass of his thumb over the slit of Carl’s cock making Carl buck against him.

He crawled slowly up the bed, straddling Carl’s slim hips and kissing his collar, his neck, his mouth. Carl’s hand brushed his cock and Brandon whimpered into his mouth. “God, yes.”

“Fucking beautiful,” Carl spoke into his neck, pushing himself up until they were both upright, until Brandon was sitting in Carl’s lap, their cocks brushing against their bellies and each other. His arms were strong around Brandon as one hand slid down his back to press teasingly against his entrance. Brandon shuddered and pushed back so fast he was sure Carl would laugh, teasing, but Carl just pressed harder, almost, _almost_ inside. His eyes were impossibly black when he lifted his head. “Don’t want to hurt you…,” he said, breathless, and Brandon kissed him hard and slid his own hand down to meet Carl’s, holding him in place as Brandon rocked back, Carl’s not-quite sweat slick finger sliding inside him slowly.

He closed his eyes at the burn, relaxing with a deep breath before rocking his hips forward and back again. Carl groaned loudly, tugging Brandon closer and kissing him fiercely, his finger sliding in deep enough to make Brandon gasp. Brandon shivered in Carl’s lap, breaking the kiss with a whimpered “Please”.

“ _Fucking hell_ ,” Carl growled, sliding out of Brandon and lifting him up and over onto his back. Brandon bounced on the mattress and his head hit the pillow as he laughed, a little hysterically. Carl grinned too, but his eyes were still unreadably dark as he rose to his knees and fumbled in is nightstand for a condom. “You’ve no idea…”

“What?” Brandon blinked up at him, smiling and running a hand back through his hair. Carl’s hair was damp with sweat, the ends curling at the nape of his neck. He watched as Carl opened the foil packet neatly, sliding the condom on with a hitched breath.

He leaned down, bracing his arms on either side of Brandon’s head. “You. I don’t…” Carl paused and looked away for a moment before turning his head back. When he spoke, it was barely a whisper. “I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you right now.” Brandon could see the unspoken in his eyes. _It’s amazing, it’s insane, it’s terrifying…_

“I know,” he whispered back, one hand sliding soothingly up Carl’s arm. “Me too…”

They stared at each other for a long moment before Carl was kissing him again, tongue gentle against Brandon’s mouth. They kissed until Brandon’s body was crying out for more, arching up and hooking a calf over Carl’s thigh. Carl leaned back at that and reached for the small tube on the nightstand, slicking his fingers with one hand.

“Practice?” Brandon grinned cheekily. Carl answered with two fingers sliding slickly inside him, making Brandon shudder and grip the bedsheets. “Yeah, ah, fuck,” he panted softly. Carl added a third finger quickly, Brandon’s body opening for him easily, like Carl was meant to be there. Brandon moaned and then opened his eyes and smiled, and Carl shook his head and smiled slowly back, pulling his hand free.

Carl settled between his thighs and Brandon wrapped a leg snugly around his waist and pulled him closer. It was only seconds before Carl was sliding inside him, not so easily that Brandon didn’t feel every centimeter to his toes. Time slowed to a crawl as Carl fucked him carefully, holding back until Brandon was keening under him. He knew he was babbling, begging, but Carl was eerily quiet above him and all Brandon wanted was for him to let go. He braced one hand on the wall above his head and pushed down into Carl’s next thrust. Carl’s fingers tightened on his hips and he gasped. When Brandon eased back and did it again, Carl spoke through clenched teeth, his expression almost pained. “Brandon, I can’t… Just stop…”

“It’s perfect,” Brandon managed, his heel digging into the small of Carl’s back and urging his hips forward until they were finally, _finally_ there, Carl’s cock buried so deep inside him that Brandon’s head rolled back with a groan. “You’re perfect, just. Please.” _Don’t worry about making it last, just come with me._ Brandon couldn’t quite form the words, but Carl got it anyway. He folded over Brandon’s body and nosed at Brandon’s jaw for a moment before pulling back and thrusting hard enough that Brandon’s eyes rolled back, mouth slack and groaning. And this was it, _this_ was what Brandon had wanted since that afternoon in Carl’s office when his body had been practically molded to Brandon’s back, breath hot on his neck.

Everything after that was sensation, Brandon’s eyes closed tight. Carl fucked him deep enough that every stroke had Brandon whimpering, both his legs locked tight around Carl’s waist. Carl took to whispering brokenly into his ear and Brandon was sure half the phrases weren’t in English. He did catch “good” and “lovely” and at “need you” Brandon tightened around him, making him whimper. He tried to respond, but all he could manage was a recitation of Carl’s name over and over, punctuated with shuddering gasps.

He was so, so close. Brandon slid a hand down Carl’s chest until his hand brushed his own cock but Carl shifted his weight to one arm and batted Brandon’s hand away. He laid his palm teasingly on Brandon’s stomach. “Look at me,” he ordered quietly, and Brandon opened his eyes. Carl’s jaw was set tight from the effort of holding his hips still and Brandon whimpered, wiggling his hips a fraction, trying to urge Carl to move.

“What?” Brandon moaned when that didn’t work.

Carl’s eyes bored into him, his thumb running absently over Brandon’s stomach and making him shiver. “I want to remember this…”

“Why?” Brandon practically whined, and Carl frowned a little. “Fuck, Carl,” he added, panting. “We can do this again in an hour, and then again, and a couple times tomorrow, okay? We can do this every god damn day for the rest of our _lives_ if you want to, and I’ll be happy. But not if you don’t _move right now_.”

Something in Carl untightened at that. He pressed into Brandon slowly, bending until his lips could brush a kiss over Brandon’s mouth. “Brandon?”

And Brandon understood somehow, and it made his heart practically stop. This was _something_ to Carl, something more than just a pick-up, more than the culmination of a semester of teasing and flirting. Carl wanted this to be the _beginning_ of something more, and Brandon was amazed at how much he wanted that too. Amazed at how relieved he was to recognize that feeling in Carl. “Every day,” he replied clearly, meeting Carl’s open gaze. “Promise.”

Carl smiled and wrapped his fingers snugly around Brandon’s cock. Brandon’s hips bucked off the bed. “Good.”

Carl’s hips snapped back and into Brandon so hard he cried out. One hand curled around Carl’s shoulder blade, fingers digging in enough to leave marks. Carl didn’t seem to mind. Carl fucked him in time with his strokes over Brandon’s cock, keeping him on the edge with an almost painful squeeze every minute or two. He was shaking all over, his thighs screaming, their bodies sweat-slick enough that he and Carl slid smoothly against each other with no friction at all.

Brandon could feel the buildup again, his stomach tensing under Carl’s fist. But Carl’s thrusts were on the edge of erratic now, and he didn’t slow down. He dropped to his elbow and his head pressed against Brandon’s shoulder as he pulled Brandon toward the edge. Brandon’s whole body tensed suddenly, his head thrown back with a stuttered groan before he came with a full-body shudder. He could sense, somewhere underneath his own orgasm, Carl losing control entirely, coming hard as Brandon’s body shook apart beneath him, around him.

He blinked his eyes open some moments later when Carl shifted slightly. Brandon couldn’t stop the slight wince as Carl pulled out and Carl made a worried sound before Brandon shook his head with a sleepy smile and tugged him back down like a heavy blanket. Carl tugged the covers over them and they both drifted off.

*

Carl looked incredibly young when he slept. Brandon was awake, lying on his side and staring openly at the sleeping form beside him. In his wool coats and boots and suit jackets, Carl cut an imposing figure on campus. He was aloof and almost regal, his eyes catching everything, but never giving much away. Brandon had been fortunate enough to see Carl at his most relaxed, but even laughing he gave the impression of being older than his years, wise and world-weary.

Asleep, Carl could have been Brandon’s age. His chest was smooth and practically hairless, and Brandon thought he’d probably been nursing his slight stubble for a few days now, not bothering to shave while he was grading papers. Brandon reached out to push a piece of dark hair off his forehead, his thumb running lightly over the spot where normally there was a tiny worried wrinkle. Brandon smiled as Carl made a soft noise and shifted closer, his eyes blinking open.

“Hey,” Carl smiled slowly, stretching his arm out and over Brandon’s waist.

“Hey,” Brandon replied, scooting closer and kissing Carl’s shoulder along a line of small bruises he didn’t remember making. “So,” he asked in his best annoying American accent. “Are you, like, my boyfriend now?”

Carl laughed, tucking Brandon’s head under his chin. “Fucker.”

Brandon grinned. “Because if you are, I expect proper boyfriend behavior.”

“Which is?”

“Dinners out, holding doors… rides to the airport.” Brandon quieted then, and Carl’s hand tightened on his arm.

“Shit,” he answered. Brandon could feel him swallow heavily. “When do you leave?”

“Two days.” It was a horrible answer, and Brandon knew one of them should point out that it was only for a few weeks, and Brandon would be home to Oxford in no time. But there was no one better equipped than the two of them to know just how long two weeks could actually be. “I’ll be back the 8th for Hilary Term.”

“Right.” Carl pulled him closer. “Well, I’ll just have to give you a proper sendoff then; make sure you don’t forget about me while you’re off playing in the sun.”

Brandon burrowed his head into Carl’s chest. “Not possible.”

Carl laughed. “I don’t know. I’ve seen those Vegas showgirls.”

“Not exactly my type,” Brandon answered wryly. He ran his fingers down Carl’s arm and smiled softly to himself when Carl took his hand, folding their fingers together. “Wish I didn’t have to go, but the fallout would be worse if I just stayed here.”

“I’d have a doorstep full of angry Americans, huh?” Carl kissed the top of his head.

“Not really.” Not angry, Brandon thought. Disappointed, controlling, cold. Unable or unwilling to deal with the fact that their perfect son was not so perfect after all. “They’re just…,” he trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence without making them sound worse than they were.

Carl just hugged him, his nose pressed comfortingly against Brandon’s temple. “Is your brother going to be there?” he asked quietly.

Brandon sighed. “Yeah. Mom says he’s doing well, but my sister says that means he’s managed to hold down his job at the Gap for almost three months. Christmas is always the worst, though.”

“Why?” When Brandon didn’t answer right way, Carl backpedaled, adding, “You don’t have to tell me, if it’s too...”

“My dad has this Hallmark card idea of what Christmas is supposed to be,” Brandon cut him off. Carl’s fingers threaded through his hair as he continued. “We lived up to it for a while, you know? Christmas as a kid was great. But after Danny started using it wasn’t ever the same. We can deal with it for most of the year, but Christmas comes and my mother pulls out all the stops, trying to make us as Norman Rockwell as possible. Danny usually fucks it up.”

“’m sorry.” Carl murmured. “I guess if you didn’t go, you’d be the sacrificial lamb?”

“I’d be the grinch who ruined Christmas, yeah.” He rolled a bit, pulling away from Carl and stretching his arms over his head. “Not that I get a warm reception when I’m home these days, anyway. Come back from your poncey British school wearing eyeliner and suddenly your parents worry about the neighbors talking,” he added, smiling sadly.

“Do they know?”

“What, that I’m gay?” Brandon laughed. “They aren’t stupid. And Ricky may be an idiot ninety percent of the time, but he was totally right when he taught me not to hide who I am. But we’ve never talked about it. It’s just… I guess it’s the big pink elephant in the room now. Right next to Danny’s last arrest, and Uncle Joe’s raging alcoholism.”

Carl propped himself on one elbow and smiled ruefully. “Be lucky your mum doesn’t want to talk about it. Mine practically took out an advert in the paper when I came out to her.”

“Yeah?” Brandon blinked up at him. Carl hadn’t ever mentioned family before. “She was cool with it, then?”

Carl groaned. “My mother is an old school bohemian. She and my da were together for a millisecond before they split up, and I was raised in communes and farms and all that shite. I showed up for a visit to my da’s one summer in a sarong with hair to my waist and he lost it. Said no son of his was going to be raised like a savage, and threatened to take her court if she stood in the way of my education. I started boarding school the next year.”

“She just gave you up?”

“No! Well, she was pretty certain no judge would grant her custody, especially if my father brought up the volume of illegal marijuana she was prone to growing, so they compromised. I did boarding school during the year, and had summers with her. Best of both worlds for my da, really. He didn’t have to deal with me at all.”

Brandon slipped his fingers into Carl’s and squeezed gently. Carl smiled at him.

“It’s no hardship, really. He lives in Sutton with his wife, and stopped paying my school expenses a few years back. I think he was hoping I’d be making a living by now,” he added with a harsh laugh.

“But why was your mom so happy when you came out?” Brandon asked, still stuck on the idea of any mother rejoicing at the news.

“Oh!” He slid a little closer, one leg tucked over Brandon’s like a warm weight. “Well, I took to boarding school like a duck to water, and she was certain for a few years that I would turn out like him. Like my da. I loved reading and suit jackets and studying.”

“Never quite got the hang of the haircut, though,” Brandon reached out and tugged a strand of dark hair.

“Cheeky.” Carl narrowed his eyes and continued. “When I came out to her, I was seventeen, and she cried. She said it was like getting her baby boy back.” He paused thoughtfully. “Then she insisted we get really high and look through old scrapbooks of the time we were in Spain when I was seven. She’s truly bizarre, I have to warn you.”

Brandon giggled. “I can’t picture you getting stoned with your mother.”

“That is only because you haven’t met my mother.” Carl rolled over and got out of bed, crossing to his desk and returning with a small framed photo of a woman in her fifties, her long, dark hair pulled into a loose bun. She was wearing a peasant skirt and a man’s overcoat, and was holding the reigns of a large quarterhorse strapped to an old-fashioned tilling machine. “This is her outside Prague last year. Her group farmed their own barley and hops to make bathtub beer.” He sat cross-legged on the bed and lit a cigarette. “I spent a week there and the smell alone almost killed me.”

“Sounds a lot more exciting than my summers!” Brandon exclaimed, staring at the woman in the picture. She was smiling openly, and her smile looked just like Carl’s. Brandon liked her immediately.

“It was all right,” Carl shrugged. “Not seeing her for Christmas this year—she’s in Paris with some new ‘gentleman friend’ and I’ve decided I’d rather stay and work than make a good impression.”

“So you’ll be around here,” Brandon sat up and tugged the covers over his feet. He reached out and took Carl’s cigarette, pulling a long drag before handing it back.

“Yeah. I could have the bar call you on Christmas. Bet Nick and Paul would love to say hello. Unless that’s a bad idea?”

Brandon could just picture his father getting a call and hearing Paul’s heavy accent, the confused glare as he handed the phone over. But going two weeks without hearing Carl’s voice at all… “No, you should. Call whenever you want. Please,” he added, his cheeks burning a little.

Carl leaned in and kissed him softly. “Absolutely.”

*

The next day and a half were spent mainly in Carl’s bed, with a few detours to the front door to pick up food deliveries and a few quick showers, plus one that turned exceedingly long when Brandon discovered Carl’s intense love of rimming. Carl fucked him over the kitchen table once, and once on his tiny loveseat in the sitting room, Brandon sitting astride Carl’s lap and fucking himself slowly on Carl’s cock.

The sex was monumentally amazing.

But Brandon truly loved the moments in between, sitting on the bed and sharing take away boxes and drinking strong European coffee and talking. Brandon talked more about Danny than he had in years-- good memories, like when Danny taught him how to ride his bike, and the first time they’d seen the ocean. Brandon had been petrified by the _vastness_ of the Pacific, but Danny had just walked right into the waves, fully clothed and fearless.

Carl told Brandon stories about the people in his pictures, starting with the one Brandon found on his fridge of two teenage boys in rumpled school uniforms leaning against an abandoned railway car. One was clearly Carl, dark eyes smiling at the other boy who was looking straight at the camera with a soft smile and a glint in his eye. “That’s Pete and me, cutting class. Lynsey took that picture. She’s a photographer now,” he gestured to the black and white prints on his wall.

“He looks...,” Brandon struggled to find the right word. “Rakish?” he shrugged.

Carl laughed and took the photo from his fingers, smiling at it. “Brilliant? Adorable? A little off his nutter? The correct answer is all of the above.” He placed it carefully back under its magnet. “We had a lot of good days, before the bad ones,” he added quietly. Brandon took his hand and led him back to bed.

The morning of his flight, Brandon woke to Carl’s mouth wrapped tightly around his cock. He barely had time to process the sensation before he was coming, floating into wakefulness with his skin buzzing. Carl crawled up the bed and kissed him deeply, groaning when Brandon licked a drop of his own come from the edge of Carl’s lower lip.

“Do you have to go?” Carl flushed and shook his head like he was embarrassed he’d actually said that out loud. “Sorry, nevermind.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Brandon smiled up at him and wrapped his arms loosely around his shoulders. “I don’t want to go, you know that. If I could think of a way…”

But Carl was already sliding out of bed, one hand tugging Brandon after him. “The last thing we need is for your parents to decide that you were beyond help here, and to pull you out of Oxford and make you finish university at some godawful American school. Then where would we be?”

Brandon smiled at the way Carl used ‘we’. “We’d be pretty much screwed.”

“Yes, we would.” Carl frowned seriously and shooed Brandon toward the bathroom. Brandon tried to tug Carl with him, but Carl pulled his hand back. “You shower, I need to make a quick call. Then I shower, you eat, we go. Otherwise we’ll end up in there for another hour, and you will absolutely miss your plane.”

“It would be totally worth it,” Brandon tried to bargain as he pulled Carl halfway into the bathroom, but Carl just grinned and shut the door in his face.

By the time he emerged fifteen minutes later, Carl had a fresh pot of coffee ready, as well as toast and jam. He pointed to a smile pile of clothes in the corner. “Those are yours, but I’m not sure you want them. You can take whatever of mine. Just promise me you won’t leave them in America.”

Wearing Carl’s clothes around his house would be just naughty and sexy and wonderful enough to get him through the next few weeks. Brandon smiled wide and hugged Carl close. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he kissed Brandon’s hair and padded to the bathroom, leaving Brandon to paw through his closet. By the time he came back, shaking the water from his hair, Brandon was wearing an old pair of grey trousers and a blue sweater over a rugby t-shirt. Everything was just a little big, but Brandon felt comfortable. He picked them because they all smelled like Carl.

They walked out of Carl’s flat holding mugs of hot coffee in their hands. Carl turned up the street past the pub and Brandon followed for half a block until they came to a small brownstone with an old BMW out front. A gangly man with ginger hair was leaning on the car. He tossed Carl the keys as they walked up and looked Brandon over quickly.

“Don’t fuck up my car, Barat.” He said in a deep baritone, but it was laced with warm humor.

“I won’t, you tosser,” Carl replied with a grin and climbed in. Brandon got in the passenger side and slid on his seatbelt.

“Good idea,” the man said to Brandon with a wink. “He’s a maniac on the road.”

“Fuck off, Kapranos,” Carl laughed and reached into his pocket.

“Don’t,” the man said, suddenly serious. “Do _not_ smoke in my car, or I will castrate you.”

Carl pulled his hand slowly from his pocket and placed both hands on the steering wheel. He nodded seriously and added a little salute as he pulled the car away from the curb. The man flipped him off before turning and walking back up his front steps. Brandon tried to hide his grin in his mug.

“Friend of yours?” he asked peering out the front windshield. He tightened his grip on the mug as Carl narrowly avoided hitting a bicyclist.

“Alex Kapranos, teaches in the lit department. Met him when he was my TA back in the day. He’s currently trying to teach me Russian.” Carl took a corner at breakneck speed and Brandon tried not to gasp.

“Nice of him to let you borrow his car,” Brandon drank the rest of his coffee quickly before it ended up in his lap.

“He’s a good friend,” Carl grinned over at him and Brandon was suddenly glad for Alex. Carl didn’t have many really close friends at Oxford. Anyone who would lend a crazy driver his car on an hour’s notice was someone worth keeping around. “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you properly, but he’d already grilled me about you on the phone and I wanted to spare you the inquisition. He’s great, but a bit of a talker.”

They made it to the dorm in minutes and Carl helped Brandon carry his bags down to the car. They got back in and pulled out, driving toward campus. Somehow the sight of Brandon’s luggage had dampened their mood considerably, and they sat in silence until they reached the street outside the main quad. The library stood in the distance. Brandon pressed his fingers to the glass, tracing the outline of the buildings in the frost forming there.

Suddenly Carl pulled the car to the curb and turned off the engine. “Get out.”

“What?” Brandon’s eyes went wide.

Carl undid his own seatbelt and opened the door without looking at him. “Get out.”

Brandon followed quickly, his heart racing just a little. Carl strode quickly into the center of the quad, stopping under the tree Brandon and Ricky had sat beneath months ago. It was bare now, and the grass crunched with frost under their feet. Brandon stopped in front of him with a questioning look.

Carl stared up at the library, his gaze taking in the ancient building and the cracked sidewalks. When he looked back at Brandon, his eyes were wide and serious. “This is… I have no idea what I’m doing, Brandon. I just need…”

He tucked a cold hand around Brandon’s neck and pulled him close, kissing him in the open, in the daylight, not letting go when a gaggle of whispering girls passed by. Brandon tugged Carl tight to him, burrowing his hands in Carl’s warm coat and sighing at the taste of coffee and heat, Carl’s tongue sliding gently across his.

When they broke apart, Carl rested his forehead on Brandon’s, eyes closed shut and his hand still tight on Brandon’s neck like he was worried Brandon would run away. Brandon kissed his cheek sweetly. “I don’t think we have to know what we’re doing,” he said quietly. “I already miss you so much it hurts, and I’m trying not to over think that.”

Carl let out a huffed laugh and opened his eyes. “Not just me, then?”

“Definitely not,” Brandon replied with a small smile. “We’ll figure it out next term, okay?”

“Okay,” Carl breathed quietly and kissed him again, slow and sweet. He finally let go and took a step back, fishing in his pocket for the car keys. He walked toward the car and Brandon followed smiling. Carl glanced over his shoulder with a grin. “Two weeks, Mr. Flowers.”

Brandon laughed and ran to meet him, hugging him tight.  



End file.
